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“What’s the matter?” said Dorothy.
“He has cut his foot,” said Stuyvesant.
“Let me see,” said she. So she looked down at Phonny’s ankle.
“I guess he has cut his boot more than his foot,” said she. “Let’s pull off his boot.”
“Oh dear me!” said Phonny. “Oh, go and call my mother. Oh dear me!”
Dorothy began to pull off Phonny’s boot, while Stuyvesant went to call Phonny’s mother. Mrs. Henry was very much alarmed, when she heard that Phonny had cut himself. She hurried out to him, and seemed to be in great distress and anxiety. She kneeled down before him, while Dorothy held him in her lap, and examined the foot. The cut was a pretty bad one, just above the ankle.
“It is a very bad place for a cut,” said she. “Bring me some water.”
“I’ll get some,” said Stuyvesant.
So Stuyvesant went and got a bowl from a shelf in the kitchen, and poured some water into it, and brought it to Mrs. Henry. Mrs. Henry bathed the wound with the water, and then closing it up as completely as possible, and putting a piece of sticking-plaster across to keep the parts in place, she bound the ankle up with a bandage.
By this time Phonny had become quiet. His mother, when she had finished bandaging the ankle, brought another stocking and put it on, to keep the bandage in its place.
“There!” said she, “that will do. Now the first thing is to get him into the other room.”
So Dorothy carried Phonny in, and laid him down upon the sofa in the great sitting-room.
That evening when Beechnut went to the village to get the letters at the post-office, he stopped at the doctor’s on his way, to ask the doctor to call that evening or in the morning at Mrs. Henry’s. The doctor came that evening.
“Ah, Phonny,” said he, when he came into the room, and saw Phonny lying upon the sofa, “and what is the matter with you?”
“I have cut my foot,” said Phonny.
“Cut your foot!” rejoined the doctor, “could not you find any thing else to cut than your foot?”
Phonny laughed.
“I hope you have cut it in the right place,” continued the doctor. “In cutting your foot every thing depends upon cutting it in the right place.”
While the doctor was saying this, Mrs. Henry had drawn off Phonny’s stocking, and was beginning to unpin the bandage.
“Stop a moment, madam,” said the doctor. “That bandage is put on very nicely; it seems hardly worth while to disturb it. You can show me now precisely where the wound was.”
Mrs. Henry then pointed to the place upon the bandage, underneath which the cut lay, and she showed also the direction and length of the cut.
“Exactly,” said the doctor. “You could not have cut your ankle, Phonny, in a better place. A half an inch more, one side or the other, might have made you a cripple for life. You hit the right place exactly. It is a great thing for a boy who has a hatchet for a plaything, to know how to cut himself in the right place.”
The doctor then said that he would not disturb the bandage, as he had no doubt that the wound would do very well under the treatment which Mrs. Henry herself had administered. He said that in a few days he thought it would be nearly well.
It might be prudent, however, he added, not to walk upon that foot in the mean time. There might be some small possibility in that case, of getting the wound irritated, so as to bring on an inflammation, and that might lead to serious consequences.
The doctor then bade Phonny good-bye, telling him that he hoped he would be as patient and good-natured in bearing his confinement, as he had been dextrous in the mode of inflicting the wound. And so he went away.
Chapter X
Good Advice
Phonny was confined nearly a week with his wound. They moved the sofa on which he was lying up into a corner of the room, near Mrs. Henry’s window, and there Stuyvesant and Malleville brought various things to him to amuse him.
He was very patient and good-natured during his confinement to this sofa. Wallace came to see him soon after he was hurt, and gave him some good advice in this respect.
“Now,” said Wallace, “you have an opportunity to cultivate and show one mark of manliness which we like to see in boys.”
“I should think you would like to see all marks of manliness in boys,” said Phonny.
“Oh no,” said Wallace. “Some traits of manly character we like, and some we don’t like.”
“What don’t we like?” asked Phonny.
“Why – there are many,” said Wallace, hesitating and considering. “We don’t desire to see in boys the sedateness and gravity of demeanor that we like to see in men. We like to see them playful and joyous while they are boys.”
“I thought it was better to be sober,” said Phonny.
“No,” said Wallace, “not for boys. Boys ought to be sober at proper times; but in their plays and in their ordinary occupations, it is better for them to be frolicsome and light-hearted. Their time for care and thoughtful concern has not come. The only way by which they can form good healthy constitutions, is to run about a great deal, and have a great deal of frolicking and fun. Only they must be careful not to let their fun and frolicking give other people trouble. But we like to see them full of life, and joy, and activity, for we know that that is best for them. If a boy of twelve were to be as sage and demure as a man, always sitting still, and reading and studying, we should be afraid, either that he was already sick, or that he would make himself sick.”
“Then I think that you ought to be concerned about Stuyvesant,” said Phonny, “for he is as sage and demure as any man I ever saw.”
Wallace laughed at this.
“There is a boy that lives down in the village that is always making some fun,” said Phonny. “One evening he dressed himself up like a poor beggar boy, and came to the door of his father’s house and knocked; and when his father came to the door, he told a piteous story about being poor and hungry, and his mother being sick, and he begged his father to give him something to eat, and a little money to buy some tea for his mother. His father thought he was a real beggar boy, and gave him some money. Then afterward he came in and told his father all about it, and had a good laugh.
“Then another day he got a bonnet and shawl of his sister Fanny, and put them upon a pillow, so as to make the figure of a girl with them, and then he carried the pillow up to the top of the shed, and set it up by the side of the house. It looked exactly as if Fanny was up there. Then he went into the house and called his mother to come out. And when she got out where she could see, he pointed up and asked her whether Fanny ought to be up there on the shed.”
Wallace laughed to hear this story.
“Then in a minute,” continued Phonny, “the boy pointed off in another direction, and there his mother saw Fanny playing safely upon the grass.”
“And what did his mother say?” asked Wallace.
“She was frightened at first,” replied Phonny, “when she saw what she supposed was Fanny up in such a dangerous place; but when she saw how it really was, she laughed and went into the house.”
“Do you think he did right, Wallace?” asked Stuyvesant.
“What do you think, Phonny?” asked Wallace.
“Why, I don’t know,” said Phonny.
“Do you think, on the whole, that his mother was most pleased or most pained by it?” asked Wallace.
“Most pleased,” said Phonny. “She was not much frightened, and that only for a moment, and she laughed about it a great deal.”
“Were you there at the time?” asked Wallace.
“Yes,” said Phonny.
“What was the boy’s name?” said Wallace.
“Arthur,” said Phonny.
“Another day,” continued Phonny, “Arthur was taking a walk with Fanny, and he persuaded her to go across a plank over a brook, and when she was over, he pulled the plank away, so that she could not get back again. He danced about on the bank on the other side, and called Fanny a savage living in the woods.”
“And what did Fanny do?” asked Wallace.
“Why, she was very much frightened, and began to cry.”
“And then what did Arthur do?” asked Wallace.
“Why, after a time he put up the plank again and let her come home. He told her that she was a foolish girl to cry, for he only did it for fun.”
“And do you think he did right or wrong?” said Wallace.
“Why, wrong, I suppose,” said Phonny.
“Yes,” said Wallace, “decidedly wrong, I think; for in that case there is no doubt that his fun gave his sister a great deal of pain. It is very right for boys to love frolicking and fun, but they should be very careful not to let their fun give other people trouble or pain.”
“But now, Phonny,” continued Wallace, “you are to be shut up for perhaps a week, and here is an opportunity for you to show some marks of manliness which we always like to see in boys.”
“How can I?” asked Phonny.
“Why, in the first place,” said Wallace, “by a proper consideration of the case, so as to understand exactly how it is. Sometimes a boy situated as you are, without looking at all the facts in the case, thinks only of his being disabled and helpless, and so he expects every body to wait upon him, and try to amuse him, as if that were his right. He gives his mother a great deal of trouble, by first wanting this and then that, and by uttering a great many expressions of discontent, impatience and ill-humor. Thus his accident is not only the means of producing inconvenience to himself, but it makes the whole family uncomfortable. This is boyishness of a very bad kind.
“To avoid this, you must consider what the true state of the case is. Whose fault is it that you are laid up here in this way?”
“Why it is mine, I suppose,” said Phonny. “Though if Stuyvesant had not advised me to bring the hatchet in, I suppose that I should not have cut myself.”
“It was not by bringing the hatchet in, that you cut yourself,” said Wallace, “but by stopping to cut with it on the way, contrary to your mother’s wishes.”
“Yes,” said Phonny, “I suppose that was it.”
“So that it was your fault. Now when any person commits a fault,” continued Wallace, “he ought to confine the evil consequences of it to himself, as much as he can. Have the evil consequences of your fault, extended yet to any other people, do you think?”
“Why, yes,” said Phonny, “my mother has had some trouble.”
“Has she yet had any trouble that you might have spared her?” asked Wallace.
“Why – I don’t know,” said Phonny, “unless I could have bandaged my foot up myself.”
“If you could have bandaged it up yourself,” said Wallace, “you ought to have done so, though I suppose you could not. But now it is your duty to save her, as much as possible, from all other trouble. You ought to find amusement for yourself as much as you can, instead of calling upon her to amuse you, and you ought to be patient and gentle, and quiet and good-humored.
“Besides,” continued Wallace, “I think you ought to contrive something to do to repay her for the trouble that she has already had with this cut. She was not to blame for it at all, and did not deserve to suffer any trouble or pain.”
“I don’t know what I can do,” said Phonny, “to repay her.”
“It is hard to find any thing for a boy to do to repay his mother, for what she does for him. But if you even wish to find something, and try to find something, it will make you always submissive and gentle toward her, and that will give her pleasure.”
“Perhaps I might read to her sometimes when she is sewing,” said Phonny.
“Yes,” said Wallace, “that would be a good plan.”
When this conversation first commenced, Malleville was standing near to Wallace, and she listened to it for a little time, but she found that she did not understand a great deal of it, and she did not think that what she did understand was very interesting. So she went away.
She went to the piazza and began to gather up the green leaves which she had been playing with when Phonny had called her to go out to see the chickens. She put these leaves in her apron with the design of carrying them to Phonny, thinking that perhaps it would amuse him to see them.
She brought them accordingly to the sofa, and now stood there, holding her apron by the corners, and waiting for Wallace to finish what he was saying.
“What have you got in your apron?” said Wallace.
“Some leaves,” said Malleville. “I am going to show them to Phonny.”
So she opened her apron and showed Phonny.
“They are nothing but leaves,” said Phonny, “are they? Common leaves.”
“No,” said Malleville, “they are not common leaves. They are very pretty leaves.”
Stuyvesant came to look at the leaves. He took up one or two of them.
“That is a maple leaf,” said he, “and that is an oak.”
There was a small oak-tree in the corner of the yard.
“I am going to press them in a book,” said Malleville.
Wallace looked at the leaves a minute, and then he went away.
Stuyvesant seemed more interested in looking at the leaves, than Phonny had been. He proposed that while Phonny was sick, they should employ themselves in making a collection of the leaves of forest-trees.
“We can make a scrap-book,” said he, “and paste them in, and then, underneath we can write all about the trees that the leaves belong to.”
“How can we find out about the trees?” asked Phonny.
“Beechnut will tell us,” said Stuyvesant.
“So he will,” replied Phonny, “and that will be an excellent plan.”
This project was afterward put into execution. Stuyvesant made a scrap-book. He made it of a kind of smooth and pretty white wrapping-paper. He put what are called false leaves between all the true leaves, as is usually done in large scrap-books. Stuyvesant’s scrap-book had twenty leaves. He said that he did not think that they could find more than twenty kinds of trees. They pressed the leaves in a book until they were dry, and then pasted them into the scrap-book, one on the upper half of each page. Then they wrote on a small piece of white paper, all that they could learn about each tree, and put these inscriptions under the leaves, to which they respectively referred.
The children worked upon the collection of leaves a little while every day. They divided the duty, giving each one a share. Stuyvesant pressed the leaves and gummed them to their places in the book. Phonny, who was a pretty good composer, composed the descriptions, and afterward Stuyvesant would copy them upon the pieces of paper which were to be pasted into the book. Stuyvesant used to go out to the barn or the yard, to get all the information which Beechnut could give him in respect to the particular tree which happened, for the time being, to be the subject of inquiry. He would then come in and tell Phonny what Beechnut had told him. Phonny would then write the substance of this information down upon a slate, and after reading it over, and carefully correcting it, Stuyvesant would copy it neatly upon the paper.
One day during the time that Phonny was confined to his sofa, Stuyvesant and Malleville had been playing with him for some time. At last Stuyvesant and Malleville concluded to go out into the yard a little while, and they left Phonny with a book to read.
“I am sorry to leave you alone,” said Stuyvesant.
“Oh, no matter,” said Phonny, “I can read. But there is one thing I should like.”
“What is that?” said Stuyvesant.
“I should like to see Frink. I suppose it would not do to bring him in here. Would it, mother?”
Mrs. Henry was sitting at her window at this time sewing.
“Why, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Henry. “How can you bring him in?” she asked.
“Oh, I can put his house upon a board,” said Stuyvesant, “and put him into it, and then bring house and all.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Henry, “I have no objection. Only get a smooth and clean board.”
So Stuyvesant went out to the shop to get the squirrel. He found him perched upon the handle of the hand-saw, which was hanging against the wall.
“Come, Frink, come with me,” said Stuyvesant. So he extended his hand and took Frink down.
“Ah!” said he, “I have not got your house ready yet. So you will please to go down into my pocket until I am ready.”
So saying, Stuyvesant slipped the squirrel into his jacket-pocket, leaving his head and the tip of his tail out. The squirrel being accustomed to such operations, remained perfectly still. Stuyvesant then found a board a little larger than the bottom of the squirrel’s house, and putting this board upon the bench, he placed the house upon it. He then took Frink out of his pocket and slipped him into the door. He next put a block before the door to keep the squirrel from coming out, and then taking up the board by the two ends he carried it out of the shop.
He walked along the yard with it until he came to the piazza, and then went in at Mrs. Henry’s window, which was open. As soon as he had gone in, Mrs. Henry shut her window, and Malleville shut the doors. Stuyvesant then put the house down upon a chair, and took the block away from the door to let the squirrel come out.
Frink seemed at first greatly astonished to find himself in a parlor. The first thing that he did was to run up to the top of a tall clock which stood in the corner, and perching himself upon a knob there, he began to gaze around the room.
Phonny was very much amused at this. Stuyvesant and Malleville were very much amused, too. They postponed their plan of going out to play for some time, in order that they might see Frink run about the parlor. At length, however, they went away, and Phonny commenced reading his story. After a time, Frink crept slyly along and perched himself on the back of the sofa, close to the book out of which Phonny was reading.
Chapter XI
The Journey
One evening about a week after the occurrences related in the last chapter, when Phonny’s foot had got entirely well, Mrs. Henry went to the door which led to the back yard with a letter in her hand. She was looking for Stuyvesant.
Presently she saw him and Phonny coming through the garden gate with tools in their hands. They had been down to build a bridge across a small brook in a field beyond the garden.
“Stuyvesant,” said Mrs. Henry, “I have just received a letter from your father.”
Stuyvesant’s eye brightened as Mrs. Henry said this, and he pressed eagerly forward to learn what the letter contained.
“It is about you,” said Mrs. Henry, “and it is a very important letter indeed.”
“What is it?” said Phonny eagerly. “Read it to us, mother.”
So Mrs. Henry opened the letter and read it as follows, – the boys standing before her all the time, with their tools in their hands.
“New York, June 20.“My Dear Sister,
“My business has taken such a turn that I am obliged to go to Europe, to be gone five or six weeks, and I am thinking seriously of taking Stuyvesant with me. He is so thoughtful and considerate a boy that I think he will give me very little trouble, and he will be a great deal of company for me, on the way. Besides I think he will be amused and entertained himself with what he will see in traveling through England, and in London and Paris, and I do not think that he will care much for whatever hardships we may have to endure on the voyage. So I have concluded to take him, if he would like to go. I intend to sail in the steamer of the first, so that it will be necessary for him to come home immediately. I would rather have him come home alone, if he feels good courage for such an undertaking, – as I think he could take care of himself very well, and the experience which he would acquire by such a journey would be of great service to him. If he seems inclined to come alone, please send him on as soon as may be. Furnish him with plenty of money, and give him all necessary directions. If on the other hand he appears to be a little afraid, send some one with him. Perhaps Beechnut could come.”
Here Mrs. Henry raised her eyes from the letter as if she had read all that related to the subject, and Phonny immediately exclaimed.
“Send me, mother; send me. I’ll go and take care of him. Let me go, Stivy, that will be the best plan.” As he said this Phonny, using his hoe for a vaulting pole, began to leap about the yard with delight at the idea.
Stuyvesant remained where he was, with a pleased though thoughtful expression of countenance, but saying nothing.
“I’ll give you two hours to think of it,” said Mrs. Henry, addressing Stuyvesant. “You must set off either alone or with Beechnut to-morrow morning.”
“Well,” said Stuyvesant, “I will think of it and come to tell you. And now, Phonny, let us go and put away the tools.”
In the course of the two hours which Stuyvesant was allowed for considering the question, he made a great many inquiries of Beechnut in respect to the journey, asking not only in relation to the course which he should pursue at the different points in the journey if every thing went prosperously and well, but also in regard to what he should do in the various contingencies which might occur on the way.
“Do you advise me to try it?” said Stuyvesant.
“Yes,” said Beechnut, “by all means; and that is very disinterested advice, for there is nothing that I should like better than to go with you.”
Mrs. Henry herself afterward asked Beechnut if he thought it would be safe for Stuyvesant to go alone.
“Just as safe,” said Beechnut, “as it would be for him to go under my charge. There is always danger of accidents, in traveling,” he added, “but there is no more danger for Stuyvesant alone than if he were in company.”
“But will he know what to do always,” said Mrs. Henry, “in order to get along?”
“I think he will,” said Beechnut. “I shall explain it all to him beforehand.”
“But there may be some accident,” said Mrs. Henry. “The train may run off the track, or there may be a collision.”
“That is true,” replied Beechnut, “but those things will be as likely to happen if I were with him as if he were alone. It seems to me that when a boy gets as old as Stuyvesant, the only advantage of having some one with him when he is traveling is to keep him from doing careless or foolish things, – and Stuyvesant can take care of himself in that respect.”
It was finally decided that Stuyvesant should go alone.
About eight o’clock, Mrs. Henry went up into Stuyvesant’s room to pack his trunk, but she found it packed already. Stuyvesant had put every thing in, and had arranged the various articles in a very systematic and orderly manner. The trunk was all ready to be locked and strapped; but it was left open in order that Mrs. Henry might see that all was right.
Besides his trunk, Stuyvesant had a small carpet-bag, which contained such things as he expected to have occasion to use on the way. In this carpet-bag was a night-dress, rolled up snugly, and also a change of clean linen. Besides these things there were two books which Stuyvesant had borrowed of Phonny to read in the cars, in case there should chance to be any detention by the way. Stuyvesant had a small morocco portfolio too, which shut with a clasp, and contained note and letter paper, and wafers and postage stamps. This portfolio he always carried with him on his journeys, so that he could, at any time, have writing materials at hand, in case he wished to write a letter. He carried the portfolio in his carpet-bag. There was a small square morocco-covered inkstand also in the carpet-bag. It shut with a spring and a catch, and kept the ink very securely.
Mrs. Henry calculated that it would cost Stuyvesant about ten dollars to go from Franconia to New York; so she put ten dollars, in small bills, in Stuyvesant’s wallet, and also a ten dollar bill besides, in the inner compartment of his wallet, to be used in case of emergency. When all these arrangements were made, she told Stuyvesant that he might go and find Beechnut, and get his directions.
Stuyvesant accordingly went in pursuit of Beechnut. He found him sitting on a bench, under a trellis covered with woodbine, at the kitchen door, enjoying the cool of the evening. Malleville was with him, and he was telling her a story. Stuyvesant and Phonny came and sat down upon the bench near to Beechnut.
“So then it is decided that you are to go alone,” said Beechnut.
“Yes,” said Stuyvesant, “and I have come to you to get my directions.”
“Well,” said Beechnut. “I am glad you are going. You will have a very pleasant journey, I have no doubt, – that is, if you have accidents enough.”